Touched By The Devil - Angel Lawson Page 0,160

it home, but it never can be.

Not really.

“Is this the place?” I ask, nodding at the wrought iron archway of the town cemetery entrance. Between the bridge and here, I’ve managed to talk myself into, at the very least, pretending everything is normal. At least for her. It still feels stilted and awkward, pulling this façade over all the frenetic anger that’s trapped beneath.

“Yeah,” she breathes, gazing out her window.

She seems content to pretend, too.

I slow the car and pull up the narrow drive. The cemetery is huge, probably the final resting place of every resident the Briar Cliffs has ever seen. Down the winding road that cuts through the gravestones, a few cars are parked off in the distance.

Sugar swallows and says, “That should be them.” I ease the car up behind a white pickup truck and park. Just before I open the door, she says, “My mom makes all of us do this memorial thing. No one likes it but her. It gets all of us tense, and my mother’s husband, he…” She trails off, jaw going taut.

I let my hand drop from the handle. “He what?”

She chews out her words. “He can be a little abrasive. Just… do me a favor and ignore him, okay? That’s what I do.”

I nod, feeling like there’s something she’s not saying, but if she can let me pretend, then I can at least extend the same courtesy to her. We step out of the car, and even though it’s warmer than it was yesterday, Sugar still wraps her arms around herself.

A woman bearing a striking resemblance to her starts toward us. “Baby,” the woman cries, pulling Sugar into a tight hug, her weathered hand rubbing at her back. “You look so good! You’ve put a little meat on your bones, haven’t you?”

Sugar’s smile is tight and rusty. “The food at school is good.”

“Should be, for how expensive it is.” She brushes the hair off Sugar’s cheeks, and I notice her flinch. Jesus Christ, she really hadn’t been lying. She’s not even comfortable with her mother’s touch. “I’m so glad you made it. Any trouble with the weather?”

“No, not really,” Sugar says, eyes darting back over to where the rest of the guests stand near the tombstones. She swallows, asking blandly, “How are you?”

“Good,” her mom says with a rattling exhale. “You know, getting all of this together was a little hectic. Your Aunt Jane kept trying to interfere, but you know how she is. I let her handle dessert, so she backed off.” She looks at me, like she’s just registering that I’m here, and then back at her daughter.

“Mom, this is…” she glances at me, and even the flash of panic in her eyes is a comforting sight. She hasn’t shown one ounce of emotion since crossing the fucking bridge.

I extend my hand and grin. Easier to pretend when it’s just putting on some charm. Sugar will see it for the ‘bullshit artifice’ it is, but these people won’t have a clue. “Sebastian Wilcox. I’m a friend of Sugar’s from school. Pleased to meet you.”

“Sebastian,” she repeats, shaking my hand and arching her eyebrow at her daughter. “It’s lovely to meet you, too. Honestly, I was worried about Sugar making new friends so late in the school year.”

“No need to worry,” I assure her, dipping my hands into my pockets. “Your daughter has won over just about everyone at Preston.”

“Is that so?” a man asks, striding up behind Sugar’s mother. He rests an arm over her shoulder possessively, eyes fixed on Sugar. “Thought maybe you decided not to show up.”

Her mom’s laugh has a nervous edge to it. “Oh Doug, you know the weather was iffy this morning. Sugar would never miss this.”

I look between them, expecting an introduction. None comes. Instead, I watch Sugar’s eyes lift to Doug’s, see the way her shoulders stiffen, lips flattening into a grim, tense line. I watch her look at him, and there’s fear there, which is bad enough. But there’s also something else, and suddenly, everything begins clicking together.

I’d know that look anywhere.

It’s the same sort of look she gave me, that first time we ran into each other at the garage.

Plastering a smile on my face, I offer this motherfucker my hand. “Sebastian Wilcox.”

He gives me a once over before taking my hand. “Doug Dickinson.” His grip is tight—it screams over-compensation, but I grew up in the world of back-room country club deals and underground fighting. I roll with it. “I

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